


Seven Percent

by cumberbiscuit (wineandkisses)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Cigarettes, Drinking, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sheriarty - Freeform, Smoking, Unrequited Love, Unromantic, drug!lock, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wineandkisses/pseuds/cumberbiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm new to all this. Sorry if I mess anything up!</p></blockquote>





	Seven Percent

Sherlock was sitting at the dimly lit bar with a glass tumbler in his hand. He swirled the brown liquid around before drinking it all down in one gulp. He placed the empty glass down on the bar top and the bar tender looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to order another. Sherlock ignored him and removed a metal case from the breast pocket of his dress coat that hung on the back of his seat. He clicked it open and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. He finally looked up at the waiting man who gave him a scolding look and pointed to a door that led out to the back alley. Groaning at the inconvenience Sherlock rose from his seat and made his way outside.

After exiting into a dirty alley way he looked up to the night sky. Through the space between the buildings he could make out a few stars. It was never as beautiful as it was outside the city but the darkness still felt right, still felt like home. He thought of another night, when he said it was beautiful. He meant it just as much for the shared moment with his companion, as for its celestial brilliance. As much as he tried to not feel emotion, nor place any significance on trivial things, he found himself noticing more of the world that he once tried to ignore. His own emotions now accompanied his deductions of the world around him, and lately he’d been thinking an awful lot of good about a lot of things. _Unimportant sentiment brought on by a chemical reaction to proximity and familiarity_ , he tried to fool himself, _an inconvenient affliction altering my dopamine response_. He knew what that meant but didn’t want to think in simpler words. He didn’t want to think of one simple word in particular. One he blurted out earlier to an unsuspecting flatmate.

Sherlock brought the cigarette to his mouth, unconsciously tonguing the end as it breeched the space between his lips. He took out a silver-colored butane torch lighter and clicked it open, ejecting a small flame out of the tip. After the cigarette was lit he inhaled a lungful of smoke and closed his eyes. An imaged flashed in his mind, a face, John’s. Sherlock winced at the electric surge of pain that shot through his nerves at the thought. He exhaled the smoke and vowed silently to himself that once he was back inside he would keep drinking until he forgot that face, at least for tonight.

As he puffed on his cigarette, taking only a minute pleasure in its calming effect, he noticed some movement towards the end of the alley way. Too big to be a stray, but not a mugger otherwise they would have rushed him brandishing a weapon of some sort demanding money or his mobile. The person stayed far enough away that anyone without his observational skills wouldn’t have noticed. He took another puff and looked up to the night sky exhaling another cloud of smoke, noting the locations of the nearest CCTV cameras as he did so. There weren’t any close enough to get a good enough picture of his location, nor the elusive watcher’s.  
Whoever was there waited. Sherlock deduced it had to be someone who knew him, someone following him, waiting for the right time to reveal himself. A stranger wouldn’t have waited, and some idiot petty criminal wouldn’t have known to stand clear of the cameras. Sherlock grew tired of this game and decided to make a move. He flicked the burning stub of his cigarette in the direction of his watcher and turned on his heels to make his way back inside. That’s when it happened.

Before Sherlock could grip the handle on the large steel door, the watcher rushed at him. Out of the shadows a man came up behind Sherlock. He had on a black suit, short dark hair, and was slightly shorter than Sherlock, stockier too, but only nominally so. Sherlock made little attempt at deflecting the advance, curious to know what would happen. Strong arms came up under Sherlock’s and hands gripped around his shoulders. The man brought Sherlock against him and backed into the shadows opposite the door. He was being gripped tightly, obscenely, against the man’s chest. Sherlock felt his opponent’s heart beating hard through his heaving breaths. He smelled of designer cologne and industrial solvents. That only increased Sherlock’s curiosity. He didn’t recognize the man’s grip nor his scent but the steadiness of the moments didn’t dissuade the notion that Sherlock knew the man. Sherlock decided he should at least feign a defense. He started to pull away and turn around when the grip tightened. He could feel hips grind against his backside as he was pulled in closer.

Then the man then spoke, “Hi.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped at the elongated vowel sounds of the greeting that escaped from the man’s mouth. It was a voice Sherlock knew all too well. Moriarty. Sherlock’s mind sped through an array of thoughts. He would have never guessed Moriarty himself would attempt an attack on him. He always worked through others. He had help, he never got dirty.

Sherlock had wrongly assumed it was some crook he and John, _oh John_ , had put away come back for revenge or maybe one of Moriarty’s minions come to deliver a message. He couldn’t believe it was actually the man here himself. Sherlock fought a little harder but Moriarty’s grip tightened. He could feel hot breath on the back of his neck, the heart beat still strong against his back and he could feel something else too. Against his arse Moriarty was actually getting hard, excited by their contact. Sherlock gasped, not at the surprise of what he could feel, but that his own initial thoughts were something closer to reciprocation of desire than the disdain that immediately followed. In what Sherlock assumed was Moriarty trying to hide his reaction to Sherlock’s body being pressed against his own, he moved around to face him. Sherlock didn’t know if he had a gun or a knife or one of his snipers waiting nearby, but Sherlock complied with Moriarty’s silent directions and let himself be guided.

There was a subtle movement of defense that Sherlock noticed in Moriarty’s shifting position. Sherlock was correct; he hadn’t meant to get turned on. Moriarty pushed him against the wall and moved his left forearm over Sherlock’s chest pushing him roughly and keeping a grip on Sherlock’s left shoulder, pinning him. He put distance between their bodies and Sherlock smirked, knowing why he did that. Moriarty pushed his arm against him again hard, an attempt to move past the slip up. With his right hand Moriarty unbuttoned Sherlock’s left shirt sleeve.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, questioning and challenging Moriarty at his decision to undress Sherlock, even this part of him, despite his gruff attempt at concealing his interest just moments ago. The shirt was pushed up to Sherlock’s bicep and Moriarty twisted the fabric tightly. The hand that had gripped his shoulder held it taut around his arm and Sherlock was genuinely puzzled at the action. He saw that Moriarty was unarmed and didn’t observe any of the red dots that would indicate laser sights pointed in his direction. There could still be a gun out there somewhere, but Sherlock was beginning to think that they were completely alone.

  
 _So why was Moriarty here?_ Sherlock wondered, _unarmed and vulnerable to any attack he or some Good-Samaritan-passerby could inflict on him_. _What if John had been here with him?_ Sherlock felt another stab of pain at the thought of John. He always automatically assumed John would be there, protecting him, but after the events from earlier he knew that wasn’t true. John wouldn’t always be there. Moriarty must have been watching Sherlock long before he arrived at the bar then. He would have seen Sherlock leave the flat. He would have seen the emotion on Sherlock’s face for the brief moment he let his guard down when he stepped outside to the street on his way to the bar, rejected, distraught, and by himself. Moriarty knew Sherlock was alone, and now Sherlock knew that Moriarty was alone too.

Moriarty reached down to his pants pocket, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. Sherlock again wondered if he had a weapon and tensed up ever so slightly. Then, as if Moriarty could read his thoughts he smiled and shook his head. His hand pulled out, holding something Sherlock recognized immediately. It shimmered in the moonlight. Realization hit Sherlock like punch to the gut. It was a syringe. Even though he knew what it contained he still asked his question.

“What is it?” Sherlock breathed out in a hoarse whisper.

Moriarty moved in closer and flicked the plastic cap off the end of the needle. He looked down for a brief moment at Sherlock’s exposed skin and pressed the needle to the vein on the inside his arm. It was bulging from the use of his shirt sleeve as a tourniquet. He pressed in just enough to break the skin but held off on pressing further into vascular tissue. At any point Sherlock could resist and Moriarty was waiting. As much as Moriarty appeared to be in control of the situation and how easily he could force this upon Sherlock, he wanted him to choose. He wanted Sherlock to let Moriarty give this to him. Sherlock could have fought Moriarty off. He could have pushed him away before he knew who had come upon him. He could have injured him just enough so he could run away to safety. Even if Moriarty had been armed he could have done something to distract him enough to escape. He could still reject this proposition and get away; he knew that Moriarty would let him go.

Sherlock did none of those things. For all the times and all the ways Sherlock could have resisted, he didn’t. He was pushed forward into Moriarty’s trap by the adrenaline surging through him. Sherlock needed to see where he was being led, but more than that he needed what Moriarty was offering.  
The needle pressed in further breaking the wall of the blood vessel. The thin hollow sliver of metal invaded Sherlock’s body and he accepted it, willingly. Moriarty’s eyes burned with some sort of mad desire, an indeterminable animalistic lunatic lust. Bringing his mouth to Sherlock’s ear once more, brushing his lips against the soft skin, he answered the question.

He pushed the plunger and injected the cool cloudy liquid into Sherlock’s arm and whispered, “Seven percent.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to all this. Sorry if I mess anything up!


End file.
